


Locked Doors

by Xaidurk



Category: Black Jack (Anime & Manga), Osamu Tezuka Star System
Genre: Gen, M/M, Medical, Trans Male Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:10:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaidurk/pseuds/Xaidurk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiriko goes out to kill a patient in need of assistance. He runs into Black Jack, and suddenly, something happens that could compromise his privacy and how Black Jack perceives his very identity. Trans!Kiriko. The usual warnings with Kiriko apply (suicidal ideation) but there's no detail or description of that specific situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Doors

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really love trans!Kiriko and wanted to write something about him and BJ's interactions. Vaguely included some other headcanons about Kiriko and BJ's respective psyches that I wanted to touch on.

 

Kiriko hung up his phone and tore the note he’d written off the pad. He folded it and tucked it into his pocket. A girl in Russia wanted to die. Some sort of debilitating, painful, and hardly-curable disease, as usual. He walked up the creaky staircase with his suitcase and into his room.

            “Christ,” he said under his breath when he noticed his footprints on the dusty, wooden floor. It’d been weeks since he’d been up here. He got a fresh set of clothing from his dresser and packed them away. Then he took out a second set, and got dressed in front of a mirror with a towel draped over the top half so he couldn’t see his breasts. Once his shirt was on, he took the towel off and tied his tie. Back downstairs. Next to the sink, filled with rinsed dishes that just needed some scrubbing, his medication waited. He threw the little pill containers into his suitcase, grabbed a stack of cash from the back of the junk drawer, and headed for the door. Hanging from the hook was his coat, in its usual spot, and his yellow scarf. Those, he wore. Underneath them, his euthanasia machine. He picked it up.

            Kiriko stepped outside and locked up his front door. He packed up his motorcycle, got onto it, started it up, glanced at the door. With a sigh, he got up and double-checked the lock. Now that he was sure it was alright, he left for the airport.

 

\-----

 

As usual, the flight was uneventful. When asked what his machine was, he told the security agents it was a turntable. Worked every time. And as usual, Russia was cold. In retrospect, Kiriko regretted not bringing a hat. He hailed a taxi.

            At least the drive to his patient’s home was short. And, admittedly, he looked better without the hat, so the cold didn’t really matter. His taxi pulled up next to the patient’s big, French-inspired door, and Kiriko counted out each bill he owed before getting out. He knocked twice. The door swung open.

            A teary man with a thick mustache looked him over, though not with suspicion or animosity.

            “You must be the doctor,” he said.

            “More or less,” Kiriko said with a shrug.

“Ivchenko. Come in.” Ivchenko stepped aside and guided him in, invited him to take a seat. Kiriko sat on the loveseat. Its beautiful, thin cushions hardly depressed under his weight. He took off his gloves and traced the curved, wooden armrest with his finger. A fire flickered in front of him. Its light danced on the wooden panels that reached halfway up the walls before giving way to the glittering, orange wallpaper.

            “May I smoke?” Kiriko said.

            “Of course,” Ivchenko said. He sat in his chair and pushed the ashtray towards Kiriko before taking out his own pipe. Kiriko lit a cigarette and puffed it a moment.

            “So, she’s your daughter, correct?” he said.

            “She is my daughter,” Ivchenko said, smoothing his comb-over down. “She just turned twenty this year.”

            “That’s incredibly young to develop this disease,” Kiriko said. “How unfortunate.” The man’s eyes welled up and he nodded.

            “Yes, yes. It’s so, so difficult, you see, to witness her in such pain.” He forced his words out and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “That is why I’m so glad you were able to come so quickly. I just want her pain to end.”

            “Certainly, I can help her with that,” Kiriko said. They sat in silence. Kiriko tapped the end of his cigarette against the ashtray. “Now, the price…”

            “Of course, of course. I have the money ready—just tell me the cost,” the man said. Kiriko nodded and took his euthanasia list out. He passed it over.

            “The method determines the price,” he said. The man unfolded the sheet of paper, adjusted his round glasses, and furrowed his brow.

            “So many chemicals… how does this affect treatment?” he said. Kiriko looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but looked down once again.

            “Well, different types of pain are associated with each one. Nausea, burning, itching, hot flashes… no chemical is truly painless,” he said. “It’s all up to her preference and what she believes she can stomach, really.” Ivchenko nodded.

            “And these are administered via…?”

            “Injection, mostly. A couple are oral.”

            Someone knocked at the door. Ivchenko got up and answered it, still reading. Kiriko leaned and rested his arm on the back of the couch.

            “I’m sorry, you must be confused,” he heard Ivchenko say, “Dr. Black Jack is already here.”

            Kiriko’s eye widened and he immediately stood. He marched to the doorway and there, Black Jack waited with a grimace on his face.

            “Just what are you doing here?” Kiriko said and fisted his hands.

            “Mr. Ivchenko called me two days ago about a young woman in need of treatment, yes? What are _you_ doing here?” Black Jack said.

            “She called me yesterday,” Kiriko said. Ivchenko waved his hands in front of his chest.

            “Wait, wait—if this man is Dr. Black Jack, then who are you?” he said. Black Jack pushed past them into the house.

            “I see you’ve got his menu—did you read the bottom item?” he said. Ivchenko unfolded the list again and squinted his eyes. “He’s the reaper’s avatar.”

            “‘Euthanasia via electronic’—euthanasia?” He dropped the sheet. “Just what—did you really—how could—do you really think I would pay someone to murder my _daughter_?!” Ivchenko’s face turned red.

            “Like I said, _she_ was the one who called me in the first place,” Kiriko said, stepping back once. “Obviously, she wants to have a say in her own fate.”

            “Like hell! I told my daughter that Dr. Black Jack was coming, and that Dr. Black Jack could cure here! She would _never_ contact a—a scoundrel like you!” He pointed wildly. Kiriko stepped back again. Sweat built up underneath his eyepatch.

            Black Jack chortled and crossed his arms. He lifted his chin like usual—smug bastard—and grinned.

            “Looks like there was quite a misunderstanding. Glad I made it in time,” he said. “Mr. Ivchenko, why don’t we talk to your daughter? Let’s see if she can straighten this out, and see if Kiriko here’s telling the truth.” Ivchenko pointed at Kiriko again.

            “This man is _not_ to come into my daughter’s room,” he said and stood in front of the stairway.

            “Why not? Apparently Katya invited him,” Black Jack said. Ivchenko gritted his teeth, but allowed Kiriko upstairs. Kiriko followed the other two and rubbed the skin behind his eyepatch. It itched.

            They came to Katya’s room and Ivchenko opened the door. Katya lied on a large bed, full of pillows and plush blue blankets. Condensation left fog on each of the glass squares in the leaded windows, and Kiriko could see ghostly finger markings in smiling faces, stars, and hearts on some of the lower panes. Katya looked up, but could not sit up.

            “Katya, explain this to me,” Ivchenko said. “This man, he is Dr. Black Jack. But this other one is Kiriko. Did you call Kiriko even though you knew Black Jack was coming?” She frowned and looked out the window.

            “…Yes,” she said. Ivchenko wiped tears from his eyes.

            “Darling, you wanted to die?” he said. She nodded.

            “Papa, Black Jack’s treatment is so expensive! I’m sick of being a burden to you!” she said. “There is no cure. Every other doctor has said so! What’s the use of paying for a surgery that won’t work?” Black Jack walked over to her side.

            “I assure you, you’re in good hands,” he said. He looked up at Ivchenko. “Tell you what. I’ll treat your daughter for three-hundred fifty rubles. That’s about, what, 500 yen? More than enough to cover my next cup of coffee at my favorite café. If I cure her, that’s the cost. If the operation fails, it’s free. If I fail, she can decide for herself whether she wants Kiriko’s treatment. Sound fair?”

            “What a joke,” Kiriko said.

            Ivchenko bit his lip. He looked at the ground and cupped a hand over his mouth. Finally, he patted his comb-over down once more, and nodded.

            “We will try that,” he said. “Yes, we will try the operation.”

            “Excellent. I’ll begin immediately. Shouldn’t take more than an hour,” Black Jack said and took off his cloak and jacket.

            Kiriko and Ivchenko walked downstairs once again. They sat across from each other in the living room and Ivchenko wagged his finger at Kiriko.

            “You will _not_ touch my daughter,” he said. Kiriko did not respond.

            An hour passed. The far-off sun sank into the horizon. Fifteen minutes passed. Another fifteen minutes passed. The fire dimmed.

            Two more hours passed. The fire burnt out and the embers glowed before darkening.

            A door upstairs creaked. Black Jack descended the stairs, his steps heavy. Ivchenko and Kiriko looked up. He was carrying his suitcase and wearing his cloak.

            Black Jack fixed his eyes on the floor. His mouth shut into a thin, stern line.

            “Doctor…” Ivchenko said and walked to him. Kiriko stood up. His stomach twisted.

            “I’m sorry,” Black Jack said. “There was something I…failed to account for. Her heart stopped forty minutes ago, and I failed to bring her back. I’m sorry.”

            Kiriko’s jaw dropped. Ivchenko balled his fists and shook. He closed his eyes. He walked past Black Jack to a desk against the wall and opened the drawer. Kiriko heard something click and looked up to see Ivchenko pointing a pistol at him.

            “If you hadn’t come here, you demon—you tainted this place. You cursed her because you _wanted_ her to die!” he said through his teeth. He chambered a round. Black Jack grabbed a scalpel from his cloak. Kiriko lifted his arms to his face.

            “Ivchenko, don’t!” Black Jack said, and flung his scalpel. As soon as it lodged in his arm, Ivchenko fired the gun. It hit Kiriko’s right shoulder. He shouted and buckled over. Ivchenko dropped against the wall. Black Jack snatched Kiriko’s uninjured arm and dragged him out the door. He forced him into the back seat of his car—a rental—and slammed the door. Just as he got into the driver’s seat, Ivchenko came out. The scalpel still sticking from his arm, he shakily aimed the pistol. The car’s tires screeched as he backed out and drove away. Ivchenko fired at them, twice, three times, but never hit. As they got further away, Kiriko saw Ivchenko collapse at the doorway and clutch his head between his arms.

            Black Jack slowed the car back to the speed limit.

            “You saved me,” Kiriko said. “Why?” Black Jack’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

            “All I did was prevent another death,” he said softly. “That’s all.”

            They arrived at a budget motel. Black Jack paid for a room at the main office, and parked his car in front of it. There, he helped Kiriko inside. The mostly-beige room smelled largely of tobacco and slightly of sex. Kiriko sat on the bed, clutching his shoulder, and stared at the brown carpet. Black Jack headed into the bathroom.

            “Thank you for getting me out of there,” he said when Black Jack returned. “I’ll send you a check. See you around.” Black Jack cocked his head at him.

            “You think I’m leaving?” he said and snorted. “That bullet needs to come out.”

            “It went right through me,” Kiriko said and glared. Black Jack slapped his shoulder from behind and Kiriko jolted.

            “No exit wound,” he said. Kiriko looked away and took off his eyepatch. He rubbed his cheek with a couple of fingertips.

            “I can take care of myself. I was an army medic, you know—I know how to remove a bullet much better than you do,” he said, and Black Jack laid a long sheet of crinkly paper on the bed.

            “Lay back,” he said. “It won’t take more than a minute.”

            “This place isn’t sterile. I’ll get an infection.”

            “You don’t need to be in a sterile room to remove a bullet. I’ll give you antibiotics if you’re really worried.”

            “I could bleed on the bed. The motel staff will be suspicious.”

            “I’m sure they’ve seen worse.”

            “I don’t consent to this.”

            “Have I ever cared about consent when a patient needs treatment?” Black Jack crossed his arms. “Come on already and lay back. It’s been a horrible night and I’d like to sleep.” Kiriko lied back slowly. He stared at the stained ceiling. Black Jack started unbuttoning his jacket. Kiriko grabbed his hands.

            “Do it with my jacket on,” he said. Black Jack scowled at him.

            “You’re insane,” he said. “That won’t work.”

            “Then let me keep my shirt on.”

            “Kiriko, your shirt needs to come off if I’m going to get this bullet out.”

            “My undershirt?”

            Black Jack sat back and crossed his arms again.

            “If you’re trying to piss me off enough to give up, think again. Now you’ve only made me want to get it out specifically to teach you a lesson about accepting help,” he said. “It’s coming off.” Kiriko bit his lip and looked away. He squeezed his eye shut as Black Jack’s fingers untied his tie and unbuttoned his jacket. As he came to his shirt, he could feel Black Jack being slower.

            His shirt came off, and Black Jack cut away his undershirt. Kiriko felt sick. He wanted to vomit. The exposure was too much, and he knew—he _knew_ Black Jack would pry. Call him a psycho. Deny his identity. Yet another weapon the genius of surgery could use against the reaper’s avatar.

            “Impressive burn scars,” Black Jack said. “Looks like they were from a blast. Got those in the war?”

            Kiriko opened his eye.

            “…Yes,” he said. Black Jack swabbed an iodine solution around the bullet wound. It felt cold.

            “That how you lost your eye, too?” he said. Kiriko nodded and winced as Black Jack gently tugged open the hole.

            “…Yes. Got hit with shrapnel, which was what really took it out,” he said and pointed. Black Jack nodded and used tweezers to urge the bullet out.

            “Hurt too much?” he said.

            “No.”

            “Good.”

            He pulled the bullet out. It clinked into a little pan. Black Jack sprinkled some water over it and looked at it carefully, through squinted eyes.

            “Looks intact. I don’t see any remaining pieces in you, either,” he said.

            “Good,” Kiriko said. Black Jack cleaned out the spot some more and stitched him up. Kiriko sat up again, and Black Jack wrapped bandages around his shoulder.

            “Don’t use your arm too much for a while, understand?” Black Jack said and helped Kiriko get his shirt on again. Kiriko nodded. “Clean it twice daily and take all the antibiotics.”

            “I’m aware of all that,” Kiriko said. Black Jack flopped over onto the other bed and kicked off his shoes.

            “I’m sleeping for a bit, alright?” he said. “You get some rest, too.” Kiriko sighed through his nose, but lied down anyway. Once he heard Black Jack snoring away, he too fell asleep.

 

\-----

 

Black Jack and Kiriko drove to the airport without speaking much. Black Jack just asked how his shoulder was feeling, Kiriko said, “Good,” and the rest of the drive was silent. Kiriko treated Black Jack to coffee while they waited for their plane.

            “That won’t cover my fee, you know,” Black Jack said and took the coffee anyway. Kiriko scowled.

            “I didn’t assume it would,” he said. Black Jack chuckled.

            “Good.”

            They sat quietly again. People rushed around them and yakked on pay phones. Plane engines roared close by. Their plane taxied up the runway, and they boarded. They sat in different sections, far away from each other, to Kiriko’s relief. He thought about having to rebuild his machine from scratch—again—and sighed. Once in a while he peered up ahead and saw Black Jack accepting yet another drink from the flight attendant. His mouth watered, but his wallet was empty, and alcohol was a blood thinner, anyway.

            They landed in Japan soon enough. Kiriko walked out of the airport and mounted his motorcycle. Black Jack pulled up his car and rolled down the window.

            “Hey,” he said. Kiriko looked up. “You good to drive with your shoulder like that?”

            “I should ask you the same question, the way you were knocking those back,” Kiriko said. Black Jack rolled his eyes.

            “Fair enough,” he said. Kiriko put his helmet on, started his bike up, and took off.

 

\-----

 

One month passed and Kiriko opened the door to Tom’s café one day when he saw Black Jack’s car outside. He glanced around. The girl—Pinoko—wasn’t here. He ordered a latte and sat at the back table in the corner, across from Black Jack. Black Jack looked up from his newspaper, and Kiriko set a fat envelope in front of him.

            “For that thing in Russia,” Kiriko said. The waitress delivered his latte and left in a rush. Black Jack looked back at his newspaper.

            “Keep it,” he said. “Your shoulder heal up fine?”

            “Of course it did. Why not take it? You’re not known for your charity,” Kiriko said. Black Jack smiled.

            “That’s true,” he said and kept reading. Kiriko sipped from his latte. It burnt his tongue. “Why come out here to make a payment, anyway? You could’ve dropped it off in my mailbox.”

            “I’d like to talk,” Kiriko said and leaned forward. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. “I understand word spreads in our circle of the underground. You didn’t…?”

            “I didn’t tell a soul what I saw,” Black Jack said and folded the newspaper up. Kiriko closed his eye and nodded once.

            “OK. And you… don’t care?” he said. Black Jack grinned to himself and Kiriko felt his face heat up. “You don’t have any questions? Any at all?” Black Jack rustled through his cloak and pulled out his wallet. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and dug through it.

            “You’re not as unique as you think,” he said, and tossed a photo onto the table. Kiriko picked it up. Its border only went around three sides. It’d been cut in half. “That’s my mother, and that’s me.” In the photo was a beautiful woman and a young child with long hair. The child was wearing a dress. Kiriko squinted his eye, and something in his chest fluttered, but not his heart.

            “Can’t be,” he said. Black Jack nodded.

            “Don’t believe me?” he said. “Here’s me in middle school.” He slid another photo across the table and Kiriko looked at it. Sure enough, it was of a student with black and white hair, facial scars, and wearing a skirt. “That one took forever to find.” A smile nearly cracked Kiriko’s face, but he stopped himself. He put the pictures down and passed them back to Black Jack.

            “If you think that I like you—or even that we’re on good terms—because we have this… shared background, you’re mistaken,” he said. “I still consider you a nuisance.”

            “Good,” Black Jack said, still grinning. “I’m glad to hear the feeling is mutual.”

            Kiriko and Black Jack went back to their latte and paper. They periodically glanced at each other while the other wasn’t looking. Then, they made eye contact.

            “Can I ask—?” Black Jack said. Kiriko nodded. “When did you…?”

            “After the war. You might not believe it but I really was near the front, though not as a nurse or field doctor,” Kiriko said. “And you, when did you?”

            “High school. Dr. Jotaro Honma helped me immensely through my entire life,” Black Jack said. “This included.”

            Hours later, they left separately. Kiriko entered his home, now cleaner and free of dust. It felt smaller, but in a cozier way. He stashed away the envelope of cash, went upstairs, and got back to work building his new machine.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the nice thing about Kiriko as a character is that in the manga, we only ever hear about his past in the Japanese military from himself. Tezuka doesn't utilize flashbacks for Kiriko unless they're accompanied by Kiriko telling the story himself (so they aren't objective "truths"). That said, there's no "word of god" about Kiriko's implied birth sex (though I wouldn't give a damn either way), so you have to trust that Kiriko's telling the truth when he's talking about his background. He could quite easily be lying through his teeth for his own privacy and protection. So really, any headcanon about Kiriko can be pretty dang easily justified. 
> 
> More on my Kiriko headcanon: He took testosterone for a few years, so his voice is deepened and he's capable of growing a little bit of facial hair on his chin. Once he noticed his hairline changing a little too quickly for comfort, he stopped. He has not had any surgeries related to transitioning. Since he doesn't see any other doctors about his health, he's probably missed a couple conditions here and there and likely isn't that healthy. He self-medicates for other conditions he knows he has, namely a hyperactive thyroid. The scars on his torso are indeed from warfare, and he's missing his left nipple. As for his chest, he is uncomfortable with having breasts, but they're small enough that he doesn't have to bind, and he's learned to cope with dysphoria by burying it into his subconscious. He's pretty naturally gangly and not very strong.
> 
> At some point, BJ'll do his top surgery for him, I'm sure. But you know, that's for another fic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, bookmarking, kudos-ing, and especially commenting if you're inclined! I love getting feedback on my work and would love to hear what you have to say.


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